Unexpected friends
by Wisecracker88
Summary: what happens when you are stabbed in the back by two of your closest friends? One shot.


Authors Note: I don't know what made me write this. I always write happy stories.

Disclamer: I don't own newsies and I never will own newsies.

Unexpected Friends

Spot was the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, the best of the best. If it wasn't for him the strike would never have taken place and, Pulitzer would jack up the price again and Most newsies would be sleeping on the street.

The year 1900, just the year before he had looked like a scrawny runt. But, this year he was no longer what he used to be. He was now scarier, with a steady lifestyle. Breaking up fights, eating with the same people, he even had a steady girlfriend.

Sometimes when he was under stress, he'd walk to the alley next to the Brooklyn Newsboy Lodging House and kick the walls and boxes like if they were his oild enemies, and he had his old attitude, 'If you don't like it... PAIN!'

As I said before he had a steady girlfriend that he learned to love. At least he thought he loved her. She was the prettiest girl alive, he was the best looking boy, so the inevitable happened, and they got together. But now he loved her.

That night he hadn't seen his best friend, Patrick, he'd see him tonight at the poker game. He thought about going to the poker game. 'No, I think I'll go spend some time with Sandy.' Sandy was his girlfriend.

Little did he know that Patrick wasn't planning to go to the poker game either, but planned on staying also at the lodging house. Sandy had some plans of her own also. They wouldn't have expected Spot to come at any time. But, to their great surprise he did. She hadn't had the guts to tell him that she no longer thought of him as a romantic figure, in her eyes he was just a big brother who was always there. But, not even that gave her the right to do what she did.

Spot walked into the Lodging House with high hopes of going for some good dinner to his favorite restaurant. He said hello to Steve the House director. Steve looked at him then up then back at Spot as if trying to tell him not to go upstairs if he knew what was good for him, but poor ol' Spot didn't catch the drift. Spot with all the innocence the leader of Brooklyn can muster went upstairs to his room.

The next events happened in succession: Spot opened the door to his room, Patrick and Sandy were getting dressed, Gasps came from both sides of the room, a slight pause, Spot slammed the door as hard as he could and ran with those skinny legs of his down the stairs, the other two opened the door and ran after him yelling things like 'it wasn't what you think!' or 'We couldn't help ourselves!' But, Spot was long gone. He went to the only place he'd find a bit of loneliness to think things over. The alley.

Spot looked around. He could not believe this had happened to him. He took a box nearby and tossed it at the wall. How could they do that to him? Couldn't they see they were all that kept him from smashing his head against the pavement? He kicked the wall with all his might. Couldn't life give him a brake? Did it all have to be this hard? He took a metal rod close to the corner and started hitting things with it. At one point he almost even hit a poor stay dog. Then as though struck by someone he fell on his knees and looked up not being able to stop the tears. "Why do you have to do this to me? Can't you see I suffer enough as it is? Give me something good! Something I can control. Send someone to heal my pain." Yelling at the gap between the buildings above him seemed to help. But, soon the feeling left. He sat against the wall and pulled his knees to his chest and put his head on his knees and wept for about five minutes until he was able to control the tears. He then leaned his head against the brick wall behind him. Hard enough to cause pain in a normal situation, but this is no normal situation.

The two bricks behind his head moved to reveal a little note. His heart sank more thinking that the only motive someone would put it there would be to let someone else know their feelings for them, or in simpler words, to tell them that they loved the other person. This only brought more tears to his eyes. He tried to read it in the dark but couldn't quite make the letters especially were they were smudged by water marks.

He went to a nearby restaurant. He asked for a drink, the strongest they had. Then pulled the little note out of his pocket, it was not what he was expecting. On the note was written:

_**Dear whoever'sinterested: June, 5th, 1900**_

_**Unfortunately for me bad things have happened in the last few days that have shattered my heart into pieces. I have tried under all means possible to make my misery diminish only making it worse. This is my last resource, if not I kill myself. This is no joke. Have you ever had two of the closest people in your life stab you savagely on the back? No. Well, I hope it never happens to you, because it feels like if someone took your heart and rung all the good things out of it and left it in the snow to catch frost-bite. If you are willing to answer this letter please leave your response where you found this.**_

_**Greetings,**_

_**Garfield**_

_**PS. I put a nickname, because the whole thing of this is to not know who you are so you can not hurt me. I put the nickname I did, because that way you will not even guess who I am.**_

Spot took this as a sign. This must be his answered prayer. Something inside him told him that he had to tell this person that he/she/it was not alone. He was with him/her/it. So after pondering his response clearly he asked the waiter to brink him a piece of charcoal and a paper. He was going to take a chance.

_Dear Garfield: June, 6th, 1900_

_I know what you have gone through. I too have gone through something similar. You are not alone. I think that your idea is brilliant one. Please believe me when I say that I know what you are going trough._

_Spot Conlon._

Spot thought of eracing his name, but he thought, 'hey this person used their nickname why shouldn't I' But, he remembered after what seemed hours after he put the letter in the slot that it was a stupid idea to put it there, but when he went to look again it wasn't there anymore instead there was another letter. This one said.

**_Dear Spot Conlon: June, almost 7th, 1900_**

**_You are a bigger dumb person that I thought you would be. But, no matter you got a good laugh out of me, Spot Conlon you should know that I chose a different nickname for myself so as for you not to know who I was. Yet you in your excitement to write back didn't think of what that might imply. But, now what is done is done and it will bring me great relieve to know who I'm talking to. Yet I feel reluctant to reveal my identity to you._**

**_With much amusement,_**

**_Garfield_**

Spot at reading this dind't know if to laugh or to cry. But, he chose the first and even then it felt good to laugh a bit. H e had found it rather difficult to get over Sandy and Patrick yet with the help of Garfield he finally managed it.

His letters with Garfield kept up until the year 1902, by this time Spot had come to realize that people could be more than just what they seemed on the outside. He had come to expect the letters every day. If he didn't receive on he'd become conflictive with his fellow newsies. Yet he kept doing things to reveal his feelings. He acted as if Garfield were his daly diary, he'd tell him/her/it everything that happened to him each day. He came to realize after a while that Garfield was the only person who actually thought about the insight he put and complimented on his thoughts other than his looks. Garfield was the only person whom he could count on in his hard times. Everything started revolving around Garfield. Who was almost a fictitious character, a fragment of his imagination, yet not. How was he to know that he was slowly falling in love? But, on one day he thought about it hard and clear, an easy day and he realized that he might not be here if it had not been for that mysterious letter inside of the bricks. He had built a proper box for the hole. It all came to him so fast. He'd be grumpy for days on end if nothing was in the box yet the familiar handwriting gave him a fealing of homlyness he'd never before in his life experienced.

After pondering it for days maybe even weeks he wrote his letter and at the end he put 'Love, Spot.' Then slowly that became 'Love, Your Spot.' The time he wrote the last one he didn't get a response but the next letter after that said this:

_**Dear Spot: May, 25th, 1902**_

_**Sometimes I like to go out of the house. I like to go to places with people that I don't know. Somewhere were I'm alone but not lonely. Every Wednesday I go to Tibby's from 5PM to 7PM and read a book. I sit on the right hand side booth.**_

_**Love,**_

_**Garfield**_

So Spot was there at around 5:30 PM the next Wednesday. He was thinking of what he should say to this person. What if this person was a boy? Then what would he do? Maybe they could be good friends. What if it was girl? Maybe something else could happen. What if this person was 80 years old? Then he'd have to live with the fact that he was in love with an old crinkly person. What if it was someone he knew? Would he run away? Would he face what was there to face? All these questions flashed through Spot's head when he grabbed the handle of the door. But, he had to know. So he pulled the door open slowly cruising through the restaurant until he found his target. When his blue eyes hit the right hand side booth, his mouth curved into a pleasant smile.

The End


End file.
